


Permanent Fixture

by vitruvianwatson (keepyoureyesfixedonme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blushing Sherlock, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John is a good father, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock is a Good Father, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepyoureyesfixedonme/pseuds/vitruvianwatson
Summary: Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here.  Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life.  His disastrous marriage had been proof of that.  But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a prompt fill based on [this post](http://watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com/post/156216616478/anyone-write-a-ficlet-where-rosie-calls-sherlock) by [watsonsanatomy](http://watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com) and then it kind of never ended? So here we are. 
> 
> This fic is still being updated, and you can keep an eye out for those updates over at [ my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com). I'll post there first, and then I will add the chapter to Ao3. Keep in mind that there's always the possibility that the rating may change with future chapters. I will update the info to reflect that if it does. <3
> 
> There are some links here and there throughout the chapters that lead back to some amazing artwork done for this story by the wonderful [aliceinsherlockland](http://aliceinsherlockland.tumblr.com). Click on them if you know what's good for you. :)

Rosie was crying. Again. It was the fourth time that night, and John had barely gotten a wink of sleep. He rolled out of bed and padded over to her crib. She wailed up at him and reached out, and he picked her up in his arms, pressing his cheek to her forehead and murmuring “Shh, shh, it’s all right, daddy’s here.”

She felt warm. Too warm. As a doctor, John knew better than to panic about a little bit of a fever, but it still wasn’t a pleasant thought. Still whispering soothing words against her head he carried her carefully down the stairs.

221B was dark and quiet, only the distant sounds from the street outside permeating the silence. Of course Sherlock would pick tonight to go to bed at a reasonable hour when John had a screaming baby in his arms and was bumping into things left and right trying to get to the loo.

Ever since he’d moved back to Baker Street with Rosie he’d kept all of the medical supplies in the cabinet under the sink in the loo. The door to that hallway was blocked off by a gate, so she’d never be able to get to it. He knew he had some baby medicine in there somewhere.

Rosie was still sobbing, but the sound was muffled by John’s shoulder, and Sherlock usually slept like the dead, so John wasn’t too worried. Until he hooked his foot on the top of the gate while trying to step over it and it came crashing down as he stumbled into the wall.

John cursed and heard a thump from inside Sherlock’s room, and a few second later the door swung open and Sherlock appeared, looking…well, endearingly disheveled and still half-asleep. He squinted at John in the darkness.

“Is everything all right?”

Rosie’s cries stuttered a bit, and she picked her head up, craning her neck around to see Sherlock.

“Yeah, yeah, just…tripped over the damn gate is all. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sherlock stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. His eyes were slowly regaining their intellectual light, and he stopped in front of John, his gaze on Rosie, and reached out to flick on the hallway light. John winced at the sudden brightness, but when he managed to get a clear look at Sherlock he noticed a developing red mark on Sherlock’s cheek.

Rosie reached out a hand for him, and Sherlock gave her one of his fingers to hold onto.

“Why is she crying?” Sherlock asked.

“Daddy,” Rosie said. John kissed her temple, letting her know he was still right there.

“She’s a bit feverish,” he said distractedly, stepping closer and reaching up with his free hand to touch Sherlock’s face. “Did you–did you fall out of the bed?”

Sherlock’s flushed and smacked his hand away. “No.”

John couldn’t prevent the grin. Not that he tried very hard. “Yes, you did, you fell out of the bed.”

“You startled me!” Sherlock snapped. “Shouldn’t you be taking care of your daughter instead of interrogating me anyway?”

“Daddy,” Rosie said miserably.

“I know, love, I know, we’ll get you sorted,” John said. Then, glancing back at Sherlock with another small grin, “You should really put some ice on that.”

Sherlock huffed and turned to sweep back into his room in characteristic dramatic fashion, but before he’d even taken three steps Rosie cried out, “Daddy, no!”

Sherlock froze. So did John. Rosie was squirming in his arms, reaching unmistakably for Sherlock who still had his back to them.

“Back, back, c’m back, daddy!”

John felt like something in his chest might burst, and he said, “Sherlock,” a bit hoarsely.

Slowly, as if he was afraid he might break if he moved too quickly, Sherlock turned back around. His eyes were wide, and he looked at Rosie like he’d never seen her before in his life.

“Daddy, daddy!” Rosie sobbed, her arms flailing out in front of her, but she couldn’t reach him. She turned around to look at John, and her expression was almost accusatory. “Want daddy!”

John stared at her, stunned, and then looked back at Sherlock who was still staring at Rosie, and there was something so _so_ fragile in his eyes, something John wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. John did the only thing he could think to do, which was to put Rosie down on the floor where she immediately crawled over to Sherlock and pulled herself up by his pajamas.

[“Daddy,” she said firmly, her little fists closed around the worn fabric as if she could keep him there by force.](http://aliceinsherlockland.tumblr.com/post/156438529400/go-read-vitruvianwatsons-amazing-parentlock-fic)

It was like watching a statue learn how to move. Sherlock leaned over, his movements strangely jerky, and pulled Rosie up into his arms where she immediately cuddled herself into his chest with a little sigh.

John suddenly found he needed to blink very rapidly. “I–I’ll go get the, um, the medicine. Can you just…?”

Sherlock nodded mutely, all of his attention on the little girl that had attached herself to him like a barnacle. John hurried past them and went into the loo where he leaned back against the door and took a deep, shuddering breath. There was the sound of Sherlock’s muffled voice moving down the hallway, toward the sitting room, and of Rosie’s delighted replies that were mostly garbled noises. 

John listened to them and pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, willing himself not to cry. His chest _ached_ , and he wanted nothing more than to go out there and wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. 

In hindsight he should’ve seen it coming. Of course she would see Sherlock as her father. He changed her nappies, he fed her, he played games with her, he played her the violin when she was fussy, he was…he was her father.

John let out a long breath and pushed off from the door, crouching down to rummage through the cabinet. He had to pull himself together and get Rosie feeling better so he and Sherlock could have a much-needed talk.


	2. Chapter 2

“Read! Read, Daddy, read!”

John couldn’t help laughing as Rosie waved the magazine she’d found on the sitting room floor in Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s small, fond smile was enough to make his throat tight.

“Yes, yes, all right, I’ll read to you,” Sherlock said, taking it from her and looking at the cover. He frowned and looked at John. “Does she normally want to read your boring medical journals?”

John looked across at him from his end of the sofa. Sherlock was on the other end, his legs stretched out, his toes just barely pressing against John’s shin where he had his leg bent so he could face them. Rosie settled herself neatly in between Sherlock and the back of the sofa and poked impatiently at the magazine. John couldn’t be arsed to care about Sherlock insulting his reading material.

He smiled, and if his voice was softer than normal he honestly didn’t care. “She doesn’t care what you read, Sherlock. She just wants to hear your voice.”

The small bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple was the only sign that John’s words had affected him in any way. He didn’t reply, simply opened the magazine, found an article that he apparently deemed interesting enough, and began to read. Rosie giggled and snuggled up closer to Sherlock, and John just watched them.

Rosie was still flushed with fever, but her spirits had improved markedly ever since Sherlock had taken charge of her. She’d been loathe to take the medicine John had for her, but Sherlock had held her up, putting their faces close together, and explained to her in his very serious and straightforward way that the medicine would no doubt taste awful, but it would make her feel much better. John hadn’t quite understood how this sort of logic had managed to work on a baby, but he wasn’t going to complain, not when Rosie obligingly opened her mouth and accepted the spoonful of liquid.

Now, as she sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

He’d resisted the temptation to move back into 221B for months because he’d been sure Rosie would disrupt Sherlock’s life. He wished he could say he finally caved because Sherlock had openly asked him to come back and told him that Rosie wouldn’t be a bother at all. But really he’d only come back because, selfishly, he _wanted_ to. He’d missed the mess, the noise, the excitement; he’d missed the sound of the violin, the bickering, the quiet nights in; he’d missed the takeaways, the giggling at crime scenes. He’d missed… _Sherlock_.

He hadn’t even told Sherlock he was coming back. He’d just shown up one day and never left. Sherlock being Sherlock, of course, had seen it coming, and John really shouldn’t have been surprised to find that the flat was already baby-proofed when he got there. And the rest was history.

And now. Well, now they were…a family. Weren’t they? 

John shifted slightly on the sofa, his back twinging where the armrest was digging into it, and Sherlock’s feet pressed more firmly against his shin. Sherlock glanced up at him for just a second, but he didn’t miss a beat in his reading, his voice deep and soothing. [John leaned his head against one hand and smiled at him. Before he even stopped to think about it, he let his other hand wrap loosely around one of Sherlock’s feet, his thumb tracing along the curved arch. Sherlock’s voice _did_ falter, then, only barely, but he simply cleared his throat and went on. If there was, perhaps, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before neither of them mentioned it.](http://aliceinsherlockland.tumblr.com/post/156488113095/another-parentlock-inspired-by-vitruvianwatsons)

John closed his eyes and listened. It was absolutely ridiculous that Sherlock’s voice could be such a relaxing sound when he was reading something as tedious as an article on Achilles tear surgery. But, if John was being honest with himself, he would gladly listen to Sherlock read from the dictionary and it would brighten his day.

Lost as he was in his own thoughts, he only opened his eyes when Sherlock’s foot wiggled in his hand. Sherlock had stopped reading and was looking at him, and John had the distinct impression that he’d said John’s name several times.

“John, she’s asleep.”

Rosie was indeed fast asleep, her head on Sherlock’s stomach, her tiny little mouth hanging open.

“Right,” John said, shaking himself a little. He let go of Sherlock’s foot, not missing the way Sherlock’s toes flexed slightly. “Right, um, let me just get her back into bed then.”

He sat up straighter, stretching a little. His back cracked painfully, and he winced.

“Let me,” Sherlock said. “I can pick her up without moving her too much from here. She won’t wake.”

John looked over at him and then down at Rosie who had one fist curled into the tattered fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “You do that, and I’ll put on the tea, yeah?”

Sherlock frowned. “John, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Aren’t you going back to bed?”

_Not without you._ The words flashed in John’s mind, unbidden, and he felt a sudden heat in his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“No, I’m…I’d rather stay up a bit. Besides,” he added, smirking, “we still need to take a look at your cheek. Banged it up a bit when you fell out of the bed, remember?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re lucky your daughter is asleep on me.”

“Oh?” John asked, amused. “What would you do if she wasn’t? Fall off the sofa in retaliation?”

Sherlock huffed and—with great care that was at odds with his sour expression—curled Rosie into his arms and stood up. She turned her head against his shoulder and let out a little sigh, but she didn’t wake up. 

“You better make the tea correctly. Last time you put too much sugar in mine,” Sherlock said haughtily as he swept past John.

“Yes, your majesty,” John said, grinning and getting to his feet. “Wait.”

Sherlock stopped and turned back around, and John stepped into his space, close enough to press a soft kiss to Rosie’s head. “Goodnight, love,” he whispered, and then he lifted his head and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock’s face was so close his breath made the thin strands of John’s hair flutter. He stood still as a statue except for one nervous swallow. 

“Don’t take too long, okay?” John said, his voice quiet. His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips without his permission, and when he looked back up Sherlock’s face was even redder than it had been when John had touched his foot. John was pretty sure his face was in much the same condition. He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Wouldn’t want your tea to get cold.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and then seemed to come back to himself. “Yes,” he said, sounding strangely unsure of the word. He nodded. “Yes. Tea. I’ll just…”

He gestured with his head toward the stairs and then turned away, and a few seconds later John was standing alone in the sitting room, listening to Sherlock’s footsteps ascend toward his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget: You can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

The kettle had already boiled and John was pouring the tea by the time Sherlock came back downstairs. John had flipped the switch on the baby monitor and listened as Sherlock had placed her into her crib. Rosie had just barely woken enough to say “Daddy” again, and Sherlock’s voice had drifted through the static in a quiet, soothing murmur—”Yes, daddy’s here. Daddy’s always here. Sleep now, little one.”—until she’d settled down. John hadn’t thought it was possible to fall more in love with Sherlock Holmes than he already was, but this was about the third time he’d been proved wrong that night.

The kitchen seemed somehow smaller when Sherlock stepped into it. John stirred his tea without looking up, focusing instead on the steam rising from the surface of the liquid. He could feel Sherlock watching him.

“Yours is ready,” John said, nodding toward the other mug beside him.

A few seconds later Sherlock’s shoulder brushed against his own, his long, pale fingers curving around his mug. He peered into it. “You only put one cube of sugar in it.”

John laughed because honestly how could he not? “You utter berk. _‘Too much sugar, John! Not enough sugar, John! Do you even know what sugar is, John?'"_

Sherlock glanced at him. “Your impression of me really needs some work,” he said drily.

John smiled down at his tea while Sherlock added another cube to his own, and for a moment they were stirring silently side-by-side, their shoulders nearly pressed together in the small space. When it had cooled enough John picked his tea up and took a small sip. He turned to face Sherlock and leaned his hip against the counter, both hands wrapped around the warm mug.

“You do make better tea,” he said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “I know.”

John kicked him lightly, and Sherlock’s smile widened. He set his spoon aside and took a sip from his own mug. John's eyes fell to the curve of Sherlock’s throat, watching as it worked around a swallow. His mouth felt very dry all of a sudden.

The clink of Sherlock’s mug against the counter made him look back up guiltily, but Sherlock was staring down at his drink, his smile replaced by an oddly anxious look.

“John, I...I’ve never asked her to call me that.”

John frowned, tilting his head a bit to try and get a better look at Sherlock’s face. “I never said you did.”

Sherlock’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the counter. “I know. I just wanted to make it clear that I never meant to insinuate that she was--that I was--”

“Her father?”

Sherlock flinched as if John had slapped him. “I’m not her father, John,” he said firmly.

John’s chest throbbed painfully. Part of him worried that maybe Sherlock didn’t want Rosie to see him as a father, but that idea didn’t add up when taking into account his behavior during the past hour. Not to mention the past three months.

"Well." John set his tea down on the counter and scratched at his left eyebrow, staring somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s elbow. “Do you _want_ to be?”

Sherlock’s fingers went still, and when John convinced himself to look up again Sherlock was looking at him, his brows drawn together in confusion. “I’m not--I don’t--” He huffed in frustration. “What do you mean?”

John licked his lips. “Rosie loves you.” _I love you._ “You’re in her life now. In our lives. And that...that’s good. Isn’t it?”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Sherlock’s face. “Yes, John. It’s good.”

The tight spot in John’s chest loosened a bit, but then Sherlock turned and leaned back against the counter with a sigh. He gazed out at the expanse of 221B, but his eyes were still and almost frighteningly blank like he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.

“I don’t know how to be a father, John.”

A nervous bubble of laughter burst from John’s throat. “And you think I do?”

Sherlock turned his head, his brow furrowed. “You’re a wonderful father.”

He said it with such conviction that it made heat rise in John’s face. He pushed off from the counter and turned to lean back against the table instead so that he was facing Sherlock. Their feet nearly met in the middle, and John stared down at Sherlock’s toes as he spoke.

“I do my best. And that’s all I can do. That’s all anyone can do, Sherlock.”

[One of Sherlock’s feet slid forward until it was pressed against John’s, but when John looked up Sherlock was staring down at his own hands.](http://aliceinsherlockland.tumblr.com/post/156541441630/some-intense-feet-game-going-on-in-this-fic-i-tell) “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

John’s eyes burned. “Sherlock, I’m not blind. I’ve seen you with her. You _adore_ her.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “I do. But I can’t...”

He trailed off, and John gently nudged his foot. “You can’t what?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally met John’s eyes. “I can’t allow myself to even consider being a permanent fixture in _her_ life when I don’t even know if I am one in _yours.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget: You can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far, friends! You can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!

John couldn’t hear past the pounding of his own heart in his ears, the blood rushing through them with a roar; it was a little bit like having a panic attack, only without the crushing pain in his chest. He wanted to avert his eyes, to look at anything that wasn’t Sherlock who was still staring at him with this...this _expression_ on his face like he was trying so hard to hide himself away even after saying what he’d just said, even after openly admitting that he didn’t know where he stood in John’s life.

It was the most heartbreaking thing he’d ever heard come out of Sherlock’s mouth, and John felt it like a punch to the gut because how, _how_ had he let this brilliant, beautiful man down so badly?

John didn’t know how long he stood there, his back rigid, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms, but it must have been an uncomfortable amount of time because the next thing he knew Sherlock was looking away and shifting uneasily. He pulled his foot back into his own space and turned as if he was about to walk away, and his voice, when he spoke, was strained.

“Maybe we should just--”

“Don’t go.” The words flew out of John’s mouth on a rush of air.

Sherlock froze, half turned away from him, and the words hung in the air between them. He opened his mouth, but John stepped forward before he could speak, his hand closing around one bony wrist. Sherlock’s hand twitched, but he didn’t shake him off. He looked down at where John had a hold of him, and John could feel the quick fluttering of his pulse beneath his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” John said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, please, just...stay.”

Sherlock just blinked and kept staring at John’s hand. “Sorry for what?” he asked slowly.

John’s eyes fell shut, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “For... _everything,_ Sherlock. Christ, for everything I’ve ever said or done that made those words come out of your mouth just now.”

It all seemed to flash through his mind at once like a film reel that had gone out of control and was spitting out images faster and faster; every awful word, every insult, every finger John had laid on him in anger and resentment and undeserved blame. And yet, somehow, after all of that, it had been _Sherlock_ who had held _him_ while he’d cried.

Honestly...it was no wonder Sherlock thought he was only a fleeting presence in John’s life. With that kind of treatment, who wouldn’t?

Without thinking, he leaned forward until he forehead met the warmth of Sherlock’s shoulder. “You didn’t deserve that,” he whispered. “Everything I put you through. I--I never said it before, and I should’ve, but I’m saying it now. I’m so, _so_ sorry. Please, forgive me.”

Sherlock was so still John wasn’t sure if he was even breathing, and he clung to that skinny wrist, counting the racing beats of his pulse until Sherlock finally spoke, his words quiet and pained. “John, I--I never blamed you.”

John’s answering laugh was a mere breath of broken sound. “God, don’t say that.” He pressed himself into Sherlock’s space until he could hide his face in the long curve of Sherlock’s neck, his hands settling against his ribs, pulling him close enough that he could feel it when Sherlock’s breath stuttered. “You have to know you deserve more than that.” _More than me._

This was dangerous ground. John had never let himself touch Sherlock this way, had never allowed himself to get this close because he had always known it would ruin him if he could ever feel Sherlock’s chest rise and fall against his own with each breath. But John was past the point of needing to protect himself.

Still, when Sherlock touched him he thought he might cry. It was so much like their last embrace except that, where Sherlock’s hands had once been sure and firm, now they were hesitant. Long fingers trembled against the back of John’s neck, the others curling around his elbow in a light grip as though he might let go at any moment.

“I don’t know what I deserve, John,” he said, and he sounded so careful, so unsure, so very unlike himself that it made John ache in places he never knew could hurt.

He let his hands slip around to Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer, his fingers knotting in the soft fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “You deserve everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Sherlock turned his head, just barely, just enough that his lips brushed against John’s temple, and his breath shuddered out of him. “You might not be so sure of that if you knew what it is that I want.”

It was too easy to hope, to read into those words, to hear what he wanted to hear. It was far, far too easy to press just a little bit closer, to ignore the pounding of his own heart when he could feel Sherlock’s against his lips where they hovered at his throat. “Tell me.”

He could hear the fear in Sherlock’s voice. “What if I’m wrong?”

John shook his head. “You’re never wrong.”

Sherlock laughed, but it sounded choked and uncertain, and John pulled back just enough to look up into his face. His eyes were wide and unguarded, his cheeks flushed, his lips trembling, and John was sure he’d never looked more beautiful than he did in that moment.

“You’re never wrong, Sherlock,” John said again.

He could see the second Sherlock decided, could see it in the way he swallowed, in the way his eyes settled on John’s, in the way his mouth went firm. But more than that, he could feel it in the way Sherlock’s forehead pressed against his own, in the way hands slid from their tentative positions and cupped his face, his palms warm and strong.

[And then he paused, and John held his breath, not daring to move. It was that last-second hesitation, that one final moment of doubt, of _is this real_ and _can I have this,_ that stilled the air around them. But it was only for a second, and then Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and he tilted his head, his nose nudging gently against John’s, and all John had to do was press up onto his toes to meet his lips in a kiss that, until this moment, he’d never let himself hope for.](http://aliceinsherlockland.tumblr.com/post/156634339930/my-fave-chapter-so-much-fluff-itll-kill-you-3)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter calls for a bit of a rating change. Nothing too dramatic happens (yet), but plenty is implied.
> 
> Thanks for reading this far, and you can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!

John Watson had spent countless hours over the past seven years fantasizing about kissing Sherlock Holmes, but he had never once imagined that it would happen like this. 

In all his dreams, in all his wandering thoughts, he’d always pictured it happening in the heat of an adrenaline-charged moment, both of them breathless already, their eyes locking in a spike of electricity that tumbled recklessly into new territory, into lips and tongues and roving hands, into heated words breathed into each other’s mouths and fingers slipping beneath waistbands.

It had seemed like the only possible way. Neither of them had ever been good at talking about the serious things, especially to each other. It would’ve made sense for them to just fall into it, to let the heat and adrenaline drag them into bed together.

Now, though, as John’s hands slipped up the long column of Sherlock’s back, as Sherlock’s lips parted at the first, hesitant touch of John’s tongue, John was glad it had never happened that way because this–standing together in the cluttered kitchen of 221B, surrounded by lab equipment and questionable experiments, wearing their hearts on their sleeves for the first time–this was more real than anything John could ever have imagined. This was the only way it could ever have happened.

Sherlock’s lips were soft and pliant against his own, his hands cradling John’s face so gently that he felt as if he might break if Sherlock ever let go. John poured every cracked and broken piece of himself into Sherlock, and he could feel from the pounding of Sherlock’s heart that he was doing the same. It had been too long coming; they had wasted so much time hurting each other senselessly when it should’ve been this. It should always have been this.

They moved together as if they’d been doing this their whole lives. Sherlock’s hands slipped down, smoothing over John’s shoulders and down to his chest, palms hot and firm until he found John’s hips, his fingertips pressing into soft flesh and hard bone. At the same time, John dragged his own hands back down Sherlock’s spine, the thin, soft shirt beneath his touch allowing him to feel the heat of him almost as if he was touching bare skin. He gripped Sherlock’s elbows, squeezing briefly before letting his touch wander up, tracing the solid lines of his biceps, the unyielding ridges of his shoulders. One hand he left at Sherlock’s jaw, cupping his face just as Sherlock had done to him, and the other he slid around to the nape of his neck, curling his fingers into the silky tangles of his hair.

A sound got caught in Sherlock’s throat then, something soft and _wanting_ that made John’s blood sing but that seemed to startle Sherlock because he broke away suddenly, his cheeks flushed scarlet.

“John, I–”

But John just shook his head, easing his lips back over Sherlock’s and whispering “Not yet” against his mouth. “Please,” he begged in between the soft, slow press of Sherlock’s mouth against his own. “Just kiss me.”

Sherlock's hands spasmed, tightening on John’s hips and somehow dragging him even closer, quite a feat considering John hadn’t thought there was any space left between their bodies. “Yes,” he said breathlessly, “yes okay,” and John could almost taste the words.

He stroked his thumb along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, the barest trace of stubble rough against his skin; the mere thought of what that might feel like against other parts of his body made him shiver, and he did it again, trying to memorize the sensation.

Sherlock had been kissed before; John knew that much. He’d seen it with own eyes when Janine had kissed him. It had nearly gutted him to watch. But there was something so careful and timid about the way Sherlock responded, and John didn’t know if that stemmed from inexperience or simple nervousness. He suspected the former, so he kept it slow and steady, urging Sherlock’s mouth to part wider with gentle touches of his tongue, teasing at his lips until Sherlock huffed softly and met his advances with equal need.

John was tempted to step forward, to nudge Sherlock back against the counter and press himself tightly against his body, but he knew if he gave in to that desire then he’d give in to the next, and the next, and the next, and soon he’d find himself in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock laid out beneath him, his hands in John’s hair and his voice catching on John’s name. And _god_ John wanted that. He wanted it so much he could barely think about anything else. But this thing between them was too new, too fragile to be about that right now, and John couldn’t stand the idea of breaking it before it was even fully formed.

So he didn’t push; he didn’t ask for more. And this time, when he scratched lightly at Sherlock’s nape and Sherlock made that beautiful sound again, he eased back, and Sherlock gasped in a breath, his eyes squeezed shut. John leaned in, skimming his lips along the sharp edge of his jaw, the barest hint of pressure, a reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He looked up into Sherlock’s face, lifting a hand to brush the curls back from his forehead. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly; he looked dazed and a bit lost. “I...I’m...” He let out a long, shaky breath and lowered his head until his brow pressed against John’s. “I think I forgot how to breathe.”

John smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth once. “Breathing’s boring.”

That surprised a small laugh out of Sherlock. “True,” he agreed. His hands slid carefully up John’s sides, just barely pulling the hem of John’s t-shirt up so that when he returned them to his hips his fingers settled against a sliver of bare skin, making John’s own breath come out shaky and rough.

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his nose against John’s as if he wanted to kiss him again but wasn’t quite sure how. “Why did you stop?”

John licked his lips, his eyes focused on Sherlock’s. “Because it was getting a lot harder not to think about taking you to bed.”

Sherlock went still, and John was pretty sure he was never going to get tired of watching that rush of scarlet bloom along his cheeks and down the curve of his throat. It made him wonder just how far down that blush might extend.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. It sounded as if something was stuck in his throat, and his gaze flicked around various points of John’s face, not quite meeting his eyes. “And that, um. That’s...not good?”

John immediately pushed up to kiss him again because, _god,_ how could he not when Sherlock was standing there, anxious and tense, asking if John was upset by the idea of having sex with him. For just a brief moment he didn’t hold back; he kissed Sherlock with everything he had, first working that mouth open, tasting and exploring, then shifting to trail a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses back along Sherlock’s jaw that made him gasp and dig his fingernails into John’s hips.

He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s ear and whispered there, “From this moment on, you don’t ever have to doubt that I want you.”

He turned his head, and Sherlock stared back at him, his eyes suddenly very bright. He blinked hard once, twice, three times, and his mouth opened and closed tremulously a couple of times before he spoke. “You can have me. I—I’m yours.”

John swallowed and traced Sherlock’s bottom lip with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut, and his lips parted. 

“I’m actually beginning to believe that,” John murmured, and he pushed up onto his toes again to replace his thumb with his mouth. His feet were starting to ache, and his calves strained, but Sherlock’s arms slid around his waist, holding him up flush against his body. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it, the tall bastard, but it made warmth spread outward from John’s chest, made his eyes burn and his cheeks feel hot.

To make matters worse, Sherlock did what John couldn’t and took that one step forward so that John was forced backward until he felt the edge of the table dig into his lower back. The room was filled with that sounds of glass test tubes clinking together and loose papers fluttering to the floor, and John automatically reached back to steady himself with one hand even as the other curled more tightly into Sherlock’s hair.

“You don’t have to wait,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled against John’s mouth. “I won’t—I’m not going to break, John.”

John’s heart felt like it was going to combust. His cheeks were damp, the salt mingling with the fading taste of tea on Sherlock’s lips because here was Sherlock, telling him in no uncertain terms that he wanted John to handle him without kid gloves, to touch him, to _have_ him, and it was almost too much. He should’ve known Sherlock would be impatient, should’ve known this insane, beautiful madman would take him apart in minutes despite all evidence that he had little to no experience in this area, which was something they _really_ needed to discuss before—

That train of thought was cut short as warm, clever hands slipped underneath the hem of his t-shirt, spreading heat and electricity across his skin. John groaned, and his body acted on its own, his legs parting just enough to let Sherlock's thigh press between them. Those hands passed up his sides, long fingers spreading over his ribs, John’s shirt bunching up around his wrists.

A full body tremor worked its way through him, and he was seconds away from pushing himself up onto the table and letting this just _happen_ when the baby monitor crackled loudly from the sitting room.

They froze, eyes wide, and for a moment everything was eerily quiet, just the combined sounds of their panting breaths breaking the silence. And then, quite suddenly, Rosie’s cries pierced through the static in a long, high-pitched wail.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a BEAST. I hope it pays off well enough. <3
> 
> Don't forget, you can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!

It took twenty minutes to lull Rosie back into a sound sleep. She was drowsy from the medicine, which helped, but she was clearly still feeling the effects of the fever, and the first couple of times John tried to lay her back down she woke back up with a miserable cry. Honestly, John thought as he held her close and walked her around the room, she might as well be Sherlock’s daughter if her appalling timing was anything to go by.

He was torn between feeling grateful and regretful at her interruption. He had still been able to feel Sherlock’s warmth clinging to him as he’d climbed the stairs to get her, but it had dissipated more and more every second like steam rising from the surface of a pond on a cold day, lovely and impossible to hold on to. But maybe it was better this way; maybe they needed a few moments to cool off, to map out this new territory before they lost themselves in it.

He sighed and pressed his lips to Rosie’s head, hushing her with soothing words. She turned her head into his shoulder, sniffling, and let her eyes close, one fist clutching at the worn collar of his t-shirt. Music drifted up through the floorboards, the delicate notes of Sherlock’s violin wending their way through the flat. 

John smiled; he recognized the tune. He didn’t know the name of it, but it was what Sherlock always played when Rosie couldn’t sleep. He’d been meaning to ask if it was one of Sherlock’s own compositions because it resembled a lullaby, but it wasn’t one John had ever heard before. The thought alone made John ache to return downstairs and finish what they’d started.

Rosie’s breathing slowly evened out, deep and steady, as Sherlock’s music drifted around them, and John gently lowered her back down into her crib; she sighed and curled up around her blanket but didn’t wake. John held onto the edge of the crib and watched her a moment longer, strangely nervous all of a sudden. Which was ridiculous, he thought, since he knew that the only thing awaiting him downstairs was what he’d always wanted.

But perhaps that was just it. He and Sherlock had never been able to get to this place before; there had always been something standing between them, death and marriage and chaos keeping them apart. And now that he was here, now that this new life was his to take...he was afraid he wouldn’t know how to keep it.

He shut his eyes, breathing in and out, attempting to calm the rapid beating of his heart. When he was sure he wasn’t going to lose it, he pushed away from Rosie’s crib and took the stairs with slow, even steps.

Sherlock was still playing when John entered the sitting room, but John knew better than to think the ever-observant detective hadn’t noticed him come in. Maybe he needed more time to process, to work through scattered emotions and organize them into something slightly more manageable. John understood that feeling all too well, so he didn’t interrupt.

There was a bottle of Jameson tucked into the back corner of one of the cabinets in the kitchen, and he went to retrieve it and two glasses. It had been a Christmas present from Stamford, and John hadn’t quite gotten around to opening it. Truth be told, he’d been doing his best to avoid drinking at all, but ever since he’d moved back to Baker Street it hadn’t been nearly the temptation it used to be, and he thought if there was ever a night for a celebratory drink it was this one.

_And maybe,_ a small voice inside his head reminded him, _just maybe you’re a little bit scared._

He poured out two fingers for himself and two for Sherlock and then screwed the cap back onto the bottle tightly and stowed it away. He followed the sound of the violin back into the sitting room and settled himself into his chair, placing one whiskey on the table beside him and sipping from the other as he made himself comfortable and let his eyes rest on Sherlock where he stood by the window, his back to John.

In his absence Sherlock had donned a dressing gown, and the blue silk framed the line of his back beautifully, rippling over his shoulder blades as Sherlock’s arm moved back and forth, drawing sweet sounds from the instrument. John didn’t attempt to hide his appreciation of the way Sherlock looked; he didn’t have to anymore. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because he could see from Sherlock’s reflection in the window that his eyes were closed.

How many times had he sat right here in this chair, watching Sherlock play the violin? How many times had he lost himself in the music, imagining what might happen if he were to stand up, cross the room, and kiss him? It was a little bit startling to realize that, if he so desired, he could do just that. He could go to him right now, place his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and press kisses to his shoulders, his back, his neck, until Sherlock lost the melody, abandoned his violin, and turned in his arms to kiss him back.

He couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if he had done so years ago. If he had been brave enough to ask for what he wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to regret the steps that had brought Rosie into his life, but there was an extraordinary amount of pain in the thought that they could have avoided so much heartbreak if maybe he had just been brave.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice, quiet and uncertain, severed through John’s regrets, sharp as a scalpel through delicate tissue, and he was brought back to the present, to the peace and comfort of 221B where, not so long ago, he’d held Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him. He shook his head a bit to dissolve the last shreds of his memories and focused once more on Sherlock who was watching him from his place by the window, his violin held loosely at his side.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, and John didn’t miss the way his eyes darted to the drink in his hand.

John smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m good. Just...thinking.”

Sherlock just hummed in response and bent over to gingerly place his violin back in its case. John rested his head in one hand and let his eyes trail over the curve of his body, from his nape to his heels, and when Sherlock glanced at him John was graced with watching the color rise to those pale cheeks. Sherlock straightened up and then went a bit still as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do next.

John stood up, swiping the second glass of whiskey from the table, and made his way over to Sherlock. It was colder where he stood, the winter air seeping in through a crack in the window. He stepped a bit closer to Sherlock than he ever would have in the past--which was saying something since they’d never been terribly concerned with personal space--and Sherlock just watched him, his eyes searching John’s face, his expression lined in concentration.

John licked his lips, and Sherlock’s gaze flicked down automatically, the crease between his brows smoothing out and his pupils dilating fractionally. Being careful not to spill any, John inched closer and pressed one of the whiskeys into Sherlock’s hand. Long fingers automatically circled around the glass, overlapping with John’s, and John instantly remembered warm hands against the bare skin of his ribs. He closed his eyes and leaned in, skimming his lips along Sherlock’s jaw and whispering, “Have a drink with me.”

Sherlock’s breath came in just a little sharper, a little faster, and his free hand curled lightly around John’s elbow. “Just a drink?” he asked, and the breathy sound of his voice sent a wave of heat coursing through John.

It took all of his self-control to step back, to release Sherlock’s hand and put some distance between them. “Just a drink,” he said and raised his whiskey to his lips as he turned away. “For now,” he added over the rim of his glass, glancing sidelong at Sherlock who stood frozen for a few seconds before he pulled in a long breath and followed behind John.

Honestly John wasn’t _trying_ to tease him; he’d just wanted to get back a little of that warmth from before Rosie’s untimely interruption. And it had been helpful to see where Sherlock stood. He was clearly not quite at ease, and John suspected that his tension arose from being uncertain about where this situation was supposed to lead. Sherlock was used to things being predictable, straightforward. Romantic entanglements definitely didn’t fall into either of those categories.

John returned to his chair, the familiar cushions a comfort to his aging back. Sherlock lowered himself slowly into his own with all the grace that John could never hope to possess and took a sip of his whiskey. His lips twisted a bit at the taste, and John smiled.

“You don’t have to drink it,” he said.

Sherlock was examining the amber liquid with a frown on his face as if he was trying to ascertain the ingredients by sight alone. “No, it’s...fine. I just don’t drink very often. Not used to it.”

“I know,” John said, shifting a bit to make himself more comfortable. He leaned his head back against the chair, looking at Sherlock with heavy eyes. “Was the last time...?”

John trailed off, the memory of that night still so sharp despite how drunk he’d been. He could still feel the warmth of Sherlock’s knee where he’d pressed his hand so very briefly, and his fingers curled inward as if he could catch the sensation and drag it back to the present. _What a wasted opportunity._

“Your stag night, yes,” Sherlock said. He was still looking down into his glass, but now his thoughts were clearly elsewhere, probably lost in the past just as John’s had been. When he smiled at some forgotten memory it looked sad and worn, and it made John itch to kiss him again.

Instead, he stretched out his legs; their chairs were close enough that his feet nudged against Sherlock’s. Sherlock flicked a glance up at him and then looked away again, but he responded, shifting until their feet were tangled together between them, calves pressed against shins and toes rubbing at ankles.

Sherlock took another sip of his whiskey and didn’t make a face this time.

“Better?” John asked, and he didn’t just mean about the drink.

This time Sherlock’s smile was small but not sad. “Better.”

Silence blanketed them, and, while there was still an edge of frenetic energy in the space between them, for a few moments there was a sense of familiarity and comfort. It could’ve been just like any other quiet night in Baker Street if it wasn’t for the welcome addition of Sherlock’s toes just barely sneaking into the leg of John’s pajama bottoms, brushing against his shin. 

John took another small sip of his drink and then lowered the glass into his lap, both hands wrapped around it. When he spoke, he kept his voice soft so as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere they’d so carefully cultivated.

“I wanted more,” he said. He was staring into his drink, but he could still see Sherlock’s head lift at the words. He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “That night. The stag night. When we...when I...”

“When you touched me,” Sherlock finished for him, and John automatically looked up, but he found Sherlock’s expression unreadable.

“Yes,” John said, his skin heating because _god,_ did Sherlock even realize how that sentence sounded? “I wanted...so much more than that.”

Sherlock’s only tell was the white-knuckled grip he had on his glass. “What did you want?”

John couldn’t help the desperate laugh that bubbled out of him at that. “Christ, Sherlock, what _didn’t_ I want?” He knocked back the last of his whiskey, setting his glass aside and wiping his hand across his mouth. “I wanted--I wanted _everything.”_

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into a lifetime, and when he finally spoke his words were so quiet that John had to lean forward to hear them. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

Somehow that knowledge made the ache in John’s throat worse, and he opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Sherlock went on, slowly spinning the glass in his hands around and around, watching the liquid inside swirl.

“It would have been a disaster,” he said, and John could tell from his tone that this was something to which he’d given quite a bit of thought. “It would have ruined us.”

John knew what he was getting at, but he was wrong. So, so wrong. “You think I would have married her anyway.”

Sherlock took another sip from his whiskey and didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. John swallowed hard and shifted to the edge of his chair so he could touch Sherlock’s knee just as he had that night so long ago when everything had been so wrong. He knew, without a doubt, that if he had kissed Sherlock that night, if he had taken him to bed, if he had woken up curled around him the following morning...he knew he would never have gotten married.

“You think far too much of me,” he said, his eyes stinging. “And not nearly enough of yourself.”

For the first time Sherlock’s voice betrayed him, the hint of a tremble sneaking into his words. “You’re a good man, John.”

“Even a good man has weaknesses, Sherlock,” John replied, squeezing his knee. “And you...” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. “You’ve always been mine.”

It was the first time he had ever admitted that out loud, and it was probably the most honest thing he’d ever said. It had only taken one day for Sherlock Holmes to become the most important thing in John’s life, and he’d been running from that truth ever since.

Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled, and he set the glass of whiskey aside with an unsteady hand. He moved closer then so that John’s hand slid just a bit along his thigh, and he touched John’s fingers timidly with his own, staring down at where they were connected. “When you say...‘always...’”

John’s free hand curled into the collar of Sherlock’s robe, and he pulled him closer until their brows touched. “I mean since the day I met you.”

Sherlock shut his eyes hard, and when he opened them again they were glassy and bright; he looked like he’d been cracked open. He pushed even closer so that their noses bumped together, and he gripped John’s wrists tightly. “Take me to bed, John,” he whispered.

John's breath caught in his throat, something hot and potent rushing through his limbs to settle deep in his belly. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off before he could even begin.

“Don’t,” he said, and there was a firm edge to his voice now. “Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

John laughed, the sound a mere breath, and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands. “No, you’re known to be indestructible.”

Sherlock ignored John’s (admittedly pathetic) attempt at a joke and kissed him instead. His mouth was soft, at odds with the vice-like grip he still had around John’s wrists, and when John parted his lips he tasted the whiskey on Sherlock’s tongue.

“Please,” Sherlock said. “Please, John, we’ve waited long enough.”

John wondered if this was what drowning felt like, this suffocating pressure in his lungs, cinching around his heart. He kissed Sherlock like he was afraid it would be the last time, his fingers pressing hard enough into the back of his neck that it must have hurt. But Sherlock gave back as much as he got, and before John knew what was happening Sherlock had slipped down from his chair onto his knees. John’s legs automatically parted to let him closer, his thighs bracketing Sherlock’s ribcage. From there, they fell deeper and deeper into each other until Sherlock said John’s name breathlessly into his mouth, and John suddenly couldn’t _breathe._

He turned his head with a gasp that quickly turned into a groan when he felt Sherlock’s mouth on his neck, just beneath his jaw, his lips working clumsy, wet kisses down to his shoulder and back up again.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, his eyes squeezed shut. “Sherlock, we can’t just--”

“Why?” Sherlock asked against his cheek, and there was a desperation there that made John’s chest hurt. “You want this. You said it yourself, John, not two minutes ago.”

“I said I wanted _everything,”_ John corrected.

Sherlock went still against him, and John took his chance, easing back just enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes. From this angle he was, for once, taller than Sherlock, and it was strange to be looking down at him like this, to see his face from this new angle, in this new setting. He stroked Sherlock’s ridiculous cheekbones with his thumbs and took a deep, steadying breath.

“I _do_ want this,” he said. “I want _you._ But. I--I don’t...I can’t--”

Sherlock pushed up, stilling John’s doubts against his mouth, and John let him because he didn’t know how to say what he needed to say just yet.

But it didn’t matter, in the end, because Sherlock said it first, soft and simple, his lips brushing against John’s with each word. “I love you.”

That was all it took for John’s entire world to shift irrevocably. That was all it took, just those words, uttered in Sherlock’s deep baritone, pressed into his mouth where they curled down inside of him and expanded, filling every crack and fissure that the last seven years had torn into him.

Sherlock pulled back just enough to look up into his eyes, and his smile was crooked and genuine, just a little bit uncertain and so heartbreakingly _real._ “I think that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this far! I'm still feeling a bit insecure about this chapter, but I'm posting it anyway! I hope you enjoy! And here's a big shout out to [highfunctioninggaybaby](http://highfunctioninggaybaby.tumblr.com) for reading this for me before I put it up and telling me it was, in fact, just fine. <3
> 
> Don't worry, this is not the end of the story, and you can keep an eye out for future updates on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!

_I love you._

It was as simple as that, or so Sherlock made it sound. It had never _felt_ simple. It had always felt to John like he was being burned from the inside out. Every time Sherlock’s hair fell a certain way; every time he smiled one of his real smiles; every time he stood just a little bit too close...it had never felt simple before this moment.

But Sherlock said it as naturally as if he’d been saying it every day, as if he’d woken John up in the mornings with those words whispered into his ear. And it was shocking because John had never expected those particular words to be directed at him in Sherlock’s beautiful voice. He had never once imagined that this moment could exist in any timeline.

And yet here he was, living it. He closed his eyes and tipped forward until his mouth covered Sherlock’s once more. He wanted to say it back, wanted to shout it until his lungs burst, but the words were lodged in his throat, and somehow they didn’t seem like _enough,_ so he stalled with a kiss, deep and slow.

The slight edge of tension in Sherlock’s shoulders ebbed away, and he made a quiet sound as he pressed closer, one large hand cupping the back of John’s head, the other a steadying presence on his thigh. It occurred to John, then, that Sherlock’s tension hadn’t arisen because he hadn’t known what to expect; he’d known exactly what to expect from this kind of situation, exactly what he _wanted,_ and, even after those brief, tender moments in the kitchen, he’d been afraid John would deny him.

As if John could ever deny him anything.

“Sherlock,” he said, the word barely audible against Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock hummed and rerouted his kisses to John’s jaw where they were less clumsy this time, firmer and more sure, the intention behind them absolutely clear. John tilted his head back, his eyes closing, both hands curled up in Sherlock’s hair.

“There’s still so much we need to talk about,” he said, but there was no strength left in the words.

“I know,” Sherlock said, nosing over John’s pulse point. “But it doesn’t have to be tonight. We have time.”

John swallowed, the beauty of that statement almost painful in its truth. They had time. For the first time in their long, tumultuous acquaintance, they had _time_ to work themselves out. There were no deadlines, nothing to race against. It was just the two of them and whatever life they chose to lead after this moment. Together.

He pulled in a harsh breath and urged Sherlock’s head back so that he could see him, could look into those impossible eyes. Sherlock’s lips were kiss-swollen, his hair messier than John had ever seen it, and his eyes were so open, so vulnerable. He'd put everything on display, opened himself up entirely, but somehow John felt like _he_ was the one who was splayed open, his insides raw and visible to anyone who cared to look.

He leaned forward, pressing his brow to Sherlock’s. “You have to know,” he said shakily. “You need to know that I—that you’ve always been—” 

His voice gave out, and Sherlock kissed him again, whispering into the space between their mouths, “You don’t have to say anything more, John.”

John shook his head; he’d always been terrible at this especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes. It had been easier before, when he’d had a drink in his hand, when he had thought being careful was still necessary. It was something to hide behind, to protect his most fragile emotions. But Sherlock didn’t want to be careful, not anymore. John didn’t either, if he was being honest with himself, but he couldn’t just _let go._

Sherlock’s lips brushed against his ear. “It’s fine, John. It’s fine, just like this.”

John never would’ve thought Sherlock would have more control over this moment than he would. He thought he’d been protecting Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn’t the one who was scared. He clutched at handfuls of Sherlock’s shirt, hiding his face against a hard shoulder. “But I—I need you to know—”

“Then show me,” Sherlock interrupted him, and he pulled away to look up into John’s face. “I don’t need words, John. You’ve never been a man of words, I know that.” He kissed him again, a brief, reassuring touch of his lips to John’s, and then he pushed himself up, unfolding his long limbs and rising fluidly to his feet. He held out his hand, and his eyes were soft and sure on John’s. “Show me, John.”

John bit his lip, staring at Sherlock’s offered hand, and he knew this was it. This was the moment he’d always wanted, the moment he’d been living for ever since he’d let Sherlock Holmes borrow his phone that day at Bart’s. He never would have thought it would happen this way; he never would have thought it would happen at _all,_ but it did, and all he had to do was reach out and take it.

Sherlock’s hand was warm around his own, his grip firm as he pulled John to his feet. John allowed himself to be pulled against Sherlock’s body, his hands resting against bony hips, his brow to Sherlock’s sternum. They stayed like that a moment while the tremors that shook through John subsided under Sherlock’s careful touch. And when he finally had a hold on himself again he pressed a careful kiss to Sherlock’s throat, another to his jaw, the corner of his mouth, until Sherlock lowered his head to kiss him properly.

The tension seeped out of him with every swipe of Sherlock’s tongue, every pass of his hand along John’s spine, and soon he was taking slow, steady steps backwards, pulling Sherlock with him, neither of them willing to break their kiss.

_Show me._ The words seemed to burn behind John’s eyelids, and he had no intention of letting Sherlock down. Not this time, not when everything he’d ever wanted was on the line. 

He slipped his hands beneath the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock faltered, stumbling a bit so that John had to steady him. His skin was smooth and soft, and his stomach trembled under John’s fingers. 

John was doing his best to keep them on the correct path to the bedroom, but eventually his back hit a wall, and, instead of stopping, Sherlock simply stepped closer, his chest pressed against John’s, and his lips hot at John’s throat. John gasped, his head falling back against the wall. Sherlock’s thigh nudged in between his legs, and John’s body responded automatically, which pulled a sound from Sherlock that made heat pool deep in John’s belly.

There was hardly anything separating them, just the thin layers of their pajamas, flimsy, overused cotton that did nothing to hide the body’s natural reaction to such stimulation. John let his hands wander lower, his fingertips just barely dipping into the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama pants; it was hardly anything, but it was enough to draw out a full body shudder, to make Sherlock’s head drop to John’s shoulder with a low groan.

_"God,”_ John whispered. He wanted to drop down to his knees right there, to press his lips and his tongue to that same spot and find out how Sherlock responded to that instead. Instead, he removed his hands, and Sherlock’s hips seemed to press up, seeking them out again, but John stilled them with a firm grip and nudged his face against the side of Sherlock’s, kissing his temple and speaking softly. “Let’s actually make it to the bed first, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded against him, his hair tickling John’s neck, and then he pulled back. His face was flushed, his pupils blown wide, and he licked his lips as he met John’s eyes. They were standing at the entrance to the kitchen, and John gave him a gentle nudge. He stepped back, his hand sliding down to find John’s. They had just reached the hallway that led to Sherlock’s room when something occurred to John.

“Shit, hold on,” he said, and Sherlock looked back at him, alarmed, his hand spasming in John’s. John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand and pulled him closer, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s just...I need to get the baby monitor. In case Rosie wakes up again.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, the panic in his expression subsiding. “Yes, all right.”

John smiled. “You go on,” he said softly. “I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock seemed hesitant to turn away, and, truth be told, John wasn’t eager to either. It felt like if he walked away then the illusion would shatter, and he’d wake up in his own bed to the realization that this had all been a dream. So John pulled him in for another kiss, just to feel him there, firm and real against him, and he let his lips linger until he felt like he could uncurl his fingers from Sherlock’s without feeling like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll be right there,” he said again, his voice barely a whisper, and Sherlock nodded, his nose brushing alongside John’s.

“I’ll be waiting.”

John wondered if Sherlock knew what his voice did to him because _christ._ He took a deep breath and stepped back, resisting the urge to kiss him again with difficulty. Sherlock turned, and John watched him go, his eyes following the curve of his back as he walked down the hallway. He couldn’t believe they’d begun the night in this same hallway, neither of them at all aware of what lay ahead.

He smiled and turned to go get the baby monitor, praying to whatever god might exist that Rosie would sleep through the night now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is...many many words of smut. Please enjoy. There will be one final chapter after this, an epilogue of sorts, I suppose. It will just be tooth-rotting fluff. :D Also, this chapter called for a rating change for...obvious reasons...
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and you can keep an eye out for the next update on [my tumblr](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com)!

Sherlock was just hanging up his dressing gown when John stepped into the bedroom. John paused in the doorway, watching as Sherlock let the silky material slide through his fingers until it settled neatly. 

It felt strange to be in this room, knowing what was about to happen. John wasn’t a stranger to sex, and he wasn’t prone to nervousness in the bedroom, but this felt different somehow. Maybe it was because he’d spent so long wanting it, imagining it, wondering how it might play out. Or maybe it was just that it was _Sherlock_ this time; Sherlock who never let anybody in but who had squeezed John into his life almost immediately; Sherlock who was so achingly beautiful that sometimes it made John’s throat hurt; Sherlock who had died for him, had come back for him, had stood by his side as he married someone else. Sherlock who _loved_ him, despite everything John had put him through.

John swallowed hard and set the baby monitor down on the bedside table where he hoped it would remain blissfully silent. Sherlock turned then, and their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them said anything. Again, John felt that flutter of anxiety in his chest like his heart had grown wings that were beating frantically against his ribs.

Sherlock broke the silence first. “You might want to shut the door. Never know when Mrs. Hudson will pop in.”

The dam broke, the tension flooding out of John’s body in the form of laughter. He could imagine it all too well. Morning wasn’t far off at this point, and Mrs. Hudson did often bring them their tea in spite of her frequent declarations of Not Your Housekeeper.

“I dunno, I’m not sure she’d mind,” John said, still grinning, but he eased the door shut, flicking the lock for good measure. “After all, she’s thought we were shagging since day one.”

When he turned back around he found Sherlock had moved a few steps closer and was watching him with one of those half-smiles.

“Even so,” he said. “I doubt she’d appreciate catching us _in flagrante delicto.”_

John rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “You posh boys and your latin,” he said, but he was still smiling.

Sherlock’s brows drew together. “I’m not posh.”

John just gave him a look as he stopped in front of him.

“John, I once spent three days hiding out in a barn filled with horse manure for a case, and I didn’t shower until a day later when we had finished interrogating the suspect.”

John chuckled, reaching up to curve a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Well, you certainly know how to set the mood,” he said, amused.

Sherlock’s cheeks went pink, and he opened his mouth, but John pulled him down into a kiss before he could say anything. And somehow, when their lips touched, every fear and doubt that John had been experiencing vanished. It was true that he had never been a man of many words; words were confusing, and they never seemed to come together the way he meant for them to. But this...this he could do.

 _Show me,_ Sherlock had said, and John meant to.

Sherlock’s hands settled at John’s waist with a light touch, barely enough pressure for John to feel. It was different from before, when he’d been firm and sure. John wondered if the new setting had made it more real for him somehow, if, while his own confidence built, Sherlock’s was fading.

He kept the kiss slow and soft, just barely parting Sherlock’s lips with his own. “I was kidding, you know,” he said.

“Hmm?” Sherlock sounded dazed already, and John smiled.

“About setting the mood,” he clarified. “You could be covered in horse manure right now, and I’d still want you.”

It seemed to do the trick. Some of the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders eased, and a breath of laughter escaped him. John caught it against his mouth, taking the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hand curling in Sherlock’s hair as he pulled him closer. Sherlock made a breathless sound that seemed to lodge itself in John’s chest, sending tendrils of heat snaking through his veins.

He took a tentative step forward, pushing against Sherlock just enough that Sherlock had to step back or lose his balance. He stepped back, his fingers tight on John’s hips now, and John pressed forward, never breaking their kiss, until Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and he pulled back, his eyes wide.

“Oh,” he said, startled, as if he hadn’t been expecting that, and then the flush on his cheeks deepened.

John smoothed his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides. “All right?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes. I just—yes. It’s...good.”

John licked his lips and leaned in, kissing the underside of Sherlock’s jaw where his pulse beat strong and fast. Sherlock tilted his head back, and John moved closer, one hand cradling Sherlock’s head as he eased him back and down against the mattress. John crawled over him, his knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips, his hands pressed into the bedding above his shoulders, and Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes dark and his lips plump from kisses.

John brushed the curls back from Sherlock’s forehead. “Hi,” he said softly.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “Hi.”

John smiled and leaned down to kiss him. They would have to move in a moment; Sherlock’s legs were still hanging over the side of the bed, and they weren’t going to get very far until they were laying down properly, but it could wait. For now John just needed to kiss him, to feel Sherlock there beneath him and know that this was _real._

Warm hands slipped beneath his shirt, Sherlock’s fingers dancing experimentally along the bare skin of his lower back before he pressed his palms flat and slid them up, up, until they curved over his shoulder blades, John’s shirt bunched up around his wrists. Sherlock made an impatient sound and tugged at the rumpled garment until John pulled back enough to let Sherlock work it up over his head where it got a bit trapped because his arms were still stuck in it. 

Blinded by the soft cotton, he let out a breathy laugh and pushed up from the bedding, sitting back on Sherlock’s thighs. He’d gotten one arm out when he felt the smooth glide of Sherlock’s hands on his stomach, which spasmed beneath the touch. He quickly worked the other arm free and tugged the material over his head, tossing it carelessly aside.

Sherlock was watching his own hands as they explored the newly exposed expanse of John’s skin; his stomach, his ribs, his chest, fingertips pressing into soft flesh. John’s cheeks felt hot, and he had to work very hard to remain still beneath the scrutiny. His heart pounded a fierce rhythm as he looked down at Sherlock who was lying there, rumpled and beautiful and staring at John as if he’d never seen anything like him. 

The scar at his shoulder tingled when Sherlock touched it, and John couldn’t help wincing. He’d never been terribly concerned about his appearance, but it was such an ugly thing, borne of an even uglier incident, and he had never been wholly comfortable when it was exposed. Sherlock’s fingers drew back immediately, but John caught his wrist, bringing it up to his mouth.

“It’s fine,” he said, his lips against Sherlock’s palm. “It’s fine, I just—people don’t usually like to...see it.” Much less, _touch it._

Sherlock licked his lips, and his eyes were veiled in some unidentifiable emotion. “You forget I have one, too.”

He dragged John’s hand down and pressed it over his chest. John felt like his heart was caught in a vice, and emotion welled up in his throat, choking him. His fingers curled into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt as the guilt crashed over him for the hundredth time. He could still feel the life bleeding out of Sherlock in Magnussen’s office as if it had happened only moments ago.

He pulled in a harsh, uneven breath, and tugged until Sherlock sat up, his hands going to John’s hips to hold him in place so that he wouldn’t go falling backwards off of Sherlock’s lap. John kissed him, hard and messy, already pulling at his shirt.

“I’m so—”

“Don’t,” Sherlock cut him off firmly, and he gripped John’s hands, stilling them. For a brief, horrible second John was afraid Sherlock was putting a stop to this, but then he softened, nudging his nose against John’s. “It wasn’t your fault, John.”

John’s squeezed his eyes shut and tried to turn his face away, but a light pressure on his jaw kept him in place, and Sherlock kissed him, his mouth soft and gentle on his own. John allowed the slow give and take to wrap around him, to work itself through his body until he felt like he could breathe again. Sherlock’s hands on his hips anchored him, holding him in this moment, but there was still that edge of panic lodged in his bones that threatened to overtake him at any moment.

“Let me see?” His voice was rough and cracked, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, and this time Sherlock didn’t stop him as he worked the worn t-shirt up and off, his fingers dragging along the soft skin of Sherlock’s arms. He let the garment fall to the floor behind him, his eyes raking down Sherlock’s chest, zeroing in on the angry pucker of flesh that marked where the bullet had pushed through.

It was irrational, he knew; it had been over two years since the incident, but he couldn’t help the relief that washed through him when he found no blood pouring from the healed wound, staining Sherlock’s pale skin in its crimson horror. His fingers trembled as they passed over the scar, barely the ghost of a touch. 

He had never seen it before now. Ever since he’d moved back to Baker Street Sherlock had been far less prone to wandering around in only a sheet--probably because of Rosie--and John hadn’t seen him in anything less than a t-shirt and trousers until now. He looked the same as John remembered except for the marred circle of raised flesh at the center of his chest. It looked much better than John’s at least, the benefits of being treated in an actual hospital as opposed to being patched together in the middle of the desert.

He sucked in a shuddering breath and let his palms rest on either side of Sherlock’s chest. He leaned forward until their brows met, and Sherlock’s hands pressed a firm line up the length of his back, warm and comforting. It helped, but John’s brain was still clogged with memories of blood and sirens and the faint stuttering of Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingers, images that didn’t belong here in this room, in this moment.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Sherlock said. 

He kissed the corner of John’s mouth, and John turned his head to catch those lips against his properly, one hand slipping up to the nape of his neck to anchor him there. It was easier to focus on the here and now when he could surround himself in Sherlock’s living, breathing body beneath him, when all of his senses were clouded by Sherlock, the smell of him, the taste of his tongue, the feeling of his skin beneath John’s fingers, those quiet sounds that Sherlock couldn’t seem to keep to himself.

“Lie back,” he said, but it was a pointless directive because Sherlock was already moving, his hands going to the bed behind him as he dragged himself back towards the head of the bed, John crawling after him. 

It was an awkward scramble, and when Sherlock raised up some to adjust his position his head knocked into John’s where he was leaning down, ready to resume kissing him. The sharp bloom of pain above his left eye made him falter, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Christ, sorry,” he said, but the words were tinged with laughter, the tight set to his shoulders loosening a bit as Sherlock's deep, rumbling laugh emerged.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, still amused as he reached up to trace his thumb across John’s forehead.

John smiled crookedly and leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock’s cheek, the one that was still slightly red from when he’d fallen out of the bed. “Now we match,” he said.

Sherlock laughed again, and the sound was so beautiful John had to taste it; it was a clumsy, uncoordinated kiss because they were both still giggling and John was still trying to get his body where he wanted it. It wasn’t until Sherlock parted his legs further, allowing John’s hips to slot neatly against his own, that Sherlock’s laughter turned into a choked _“Oh”_ that sent heat crackling down John’s spine.

He went still, holding himself up, his hands pressed into the bedding on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders. It wasn’t a position he could hold for very long, not with his unreliable shoulder, but he gave himself a moment to observe Sherlock beneath him. His eyes were wide and dark, his hair fanning out against the pillow, inky curls against the white sheets. Most importantly, though, John could finally follow the path of Sherlock’s flush, from high in his cheekbones all the way down to his naval, a river of scarlet that John longed to chase with his lips and tongue.

It was jarring to realize that he didn’t have to settle for imagining it anymore. As if to cement this point, Sherlock’s hips nudged up experimentally against his own, and John’s head fell forward with a quiet groan. Their pajama bottoms were so thin it hardly felt as if there was anything between them, and John rocked forward, pressing them closer together in a way that had Sherlock’s hands curling tightly around his arms as John’s name fell from his lips, breathy and scarce.

John lowered himself down onto his forearms, his bare chest pressed to Sherlock’s. He felt almost feverish with heat as Sherlock’s warmth seeped into him, and with every panted breath he could feel the subtle tremor in the body beneath him. Gently, he eased his hips back and forth, a shallow, slow dance that set the embers of his desire aflame and made Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth part around a soft moan that John could _feel,_ pressed together as they were.

“Sherlock,” John breathed.

Their lips met, wet and messy, and Sherlock's hands were hot against his back, his shoulders, his arms, anywhere they could reach. John shifted his weight onto his right arm, his left hand pressing first to Sherlock’s chest and then sliding down, his fingers tripping over hard ribs and dragging over the soft skin of his belly. He kept waiting for something to change, for Sherlock to push him away, but all that happened was that Sherlock’s breathing got more ragged and his body pushed against John’s hand, silently seeking for _more._

The cotton of Sherlock’s pajamas was too worn and insubstantial to disguise his obvious arousal, and when John lightly passed his palm over the thin material and what lay beneath Sherlock jerked and turned his face away with a gasp. John leaned in, latching onto Sherlock’s neck with his mouth as he gently rubbed his hand, his own body aching in sympathy at the whine that caught in Sherlock’s throat.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his lips at Sherlock’s ear. He had to be sure. He had wanted this for so long; it would be far too easy to get carried away.

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock said, equal parts breathless and impatient, and he rocked up into John’s hand, his eyes practically rolling back in his head when John tightened his grip.

And _god,_ John couldn’t help feeling a slight pang at the thought they had lost so much time. The idea that he could’ve had this years ago gnawed at him, and he watched every tiny movement in Sherlock’s face, memorizing the lines around his eyes; the crease between his brows when pleasure twisted his features just so; the way his teeth worried at his bottom lip whenever John’s hand drew a particularly loud moan from him. John felt as if he’d been parched his whole life and he’d only just now realized it.

He eased his grip and let his hand slide back up the length of Sherlock’s body, ignoring Sherlock’s quiet noise of complaint at the loss. He touched his fingers to Sherlock’s jaw. “Look at me?”

It seemed to take an extraordinary amount of effort for Sherlock to turn his head and peel his eyes open, and he gazed at John with the haze of lust still clouding his mercurial gaze. John licked his lips, letting his eyes rove all around that lovely, flushed face.

“Why’d you stop?” Sherlock asked, the petulant tone of his words undermined by the hoarse quality to his voice.

John didn’t answer at first, instead leaning in to take another kiss, this one far more tender than the last. Sherlock’s hands curved around the sides of his neck, drawing him closer, and John let his weight settle over Sherlock’s again, luxuriating in the feeling of the strong, hard body beneath him. He wasn’t willing to part with any of it, so when he spoke he did it against the seam of Sherlock’s lips.

“Have you ever done this before?”

He might not have been able to sense the tension arise in Sherlock, subtle as it was, had they not been so tightly wound together. He didn’t falter, though; he left a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, down the side of his neck. He was beginning to learn that physical comfort worked better than words in Sherlock’s case.

He felt it when Sherlock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath John’s mouth.

“Does it matter?” The defensive edge to his voice was there, but it was muted by an undercurrent of anxiety.

“Not in the grand scheme of things, no,” John said, keeping his voice light. His tongue flicked out over Sherlock’s left clavicle, and Sherlock shuddered beneath him, his fingers slipping up into John’s hair. “And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” John went on. “It’s fine.”

He shifted, wriggling down the bed so that his stomach was pressed into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips and he could rub his nose over Sherlock’s left nipple. Sherlock’s back arched, his fingers spasming in John’s hair, and John murmured into warm skin, “I just need to know that you’ll tell me if you’re...uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomf— _oh.”_

The first touch of John’s tongue to his nipple had Sherlock’s breath leaving him in a rush only to be sucked back in with harsh speed. His hands scrabbled at John’s shoulders, and John closed his lips and sucked lightly, the fingers of his right hand dragging over the other nipple. The sounds Sherlock made had John shifting restlessly, rutting shamelessly against the mattress to relieve some of his own steadily building arousal.

“Tell me what you want,” John breathed in between soft, slow sucks.

Sherlock was restless beneath him, all shuddering breaths and fidgety limbs that couldn’t seem to keep still. “I—I’m— _damn it,_ anything. _Everything.”_

John moved to the other nipple, replacing his fingers with his mouth, and Sherlock practically surged into the sensation. “Tell me what you think about most,” John said. “When you...”

“Touch myself?” Sherlock gasped, and John groaned, the sound of those words coming out of Sherlock’s mouth almost obscene. “I—I think about this.”

John swirled his tongue and pushed against Sherlock’s hips meaningfully. “Just this?”

“Your mouth,” Sherlock said, his words almost choked. “I think about your mouth.”

As much as he wanted to hear even dirtier words slip from Sherlock’s lips, John wasn’t going to make him elaborate. His meaning was perfectly clear, and John immediately skimmed his lips to the center of Sherlock’s chest, carefully skirting the small scar (and ignoring the slight pang in his own chest because of it) as he worked his way down. 

“Can I?” he asked, the plea in his voice audible.

Sherlock’s laugh was a breath of incredulity. “Yes. _Yes,_ John, just... _god,_ yes.”

It was all John needed to hear. He licked briefly into Sherlock’s belly button, then moved to nip at one protruding hip bone. Above him, Sherlock’s hands curled into the sheets and his head pressed back hard against the pillow, his long neck arched.

All it took was a light pat to one of Sherlock’s hips to make him lift up, and John hooked his fingers into the waistband of those flimsy pajamas and tugged. It took a bit of maneuvering on Sherlock’s part to get them down to his ankles, and when he’d finally kicked them off John sat back on his heels between those long legs, his hands resting on Sherlock’s bent knees.

Sherlock was halfway sat up, his weight supported by his elbows on the mattress, and he looked up at John with an expression that was half desire and half ill-concealed self-consciousness. He didn’t say anything, and neither did John, choosing to let his eyes do the talking for him as they wandered down from Sherlock’s face, over the broad expanse of his chest, his nipples still peaked and damp from John’s attention. The concave curve of his belly rose and fell rapidly with each breath, and John followed the sparse path of hair that led down into a denser nest from which Sherlock’s cock protruded, flushed and erect.

He was beautiful, every inch of him, and John wanted to tell him so, but the words got caught in his chest, too frail and insufficient to do him justice. Instead, he let his hands skim down, the insides of Sherlock’s thighs warm and trembling against his palms. A light pressure was all it took to make Sherlock part them further, and John leaned down to kiss his right knee.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, all right?” he murmured, and he waited for Sherlock’s jerky nod of affirmation before letting his lips work a slow, wet path along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. 

He hadn’t done this in the better part of a decade, and his nerves jangled with that knowledge, but he didn’t think it would matter, not with the way Sherlock responded to even the lightest touch. He was so sensitive it made John long to touch every part of him, to find out what made him writhe the most. 

He shifted, stretching out along the mattress on his stomach, his hands gripping Sherlock’s hips. Coarse hair tickled his nose, and his tongue darted out to lick along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s head fell back with a quiet groan, and John nuzzled into the heat at the base of his cock, his mouth parting around thick, hard flesh.

The fleeting thought that perhaps he should be using a condom was brushed aside. Being a doctor, John had always made it a point that he and Sherlock get tested regularly. In their line of work they often found themselves dealing with blood and unsavory bodily fluids, and while they were always careful, Sherlock’s health was one area where John wasn’t willing to bend.

One hand wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s cock, holding it steady as he pressed damp, open-mouthed kisses along the length of him. Sherlock’s arms gave out, and he fell back against the bed, his chest heaving and his fingers grappling at the covers, white-knuckled and straining. John licked his lips and closed them tightly around the head, his tongue teasing at the glans and drawing something very close to a whimper out of Sherlock.

Having not had much practice at this lately, John knew he wouldn’t be able to take him in as far as he’d like, so he made up the difference with his hand, stroking up with a firm grip as he lowered his head until the circle of his fingers met his lips. He sucked, lightly at first, as he slid his mouth up and down, his tongue pressed tightly to the underside of Sherlock’s cock, tracing the thick vein that ran along it.

One of Sherlock’s hands slipped into his hair, his fingers curling tightly into the short strands but not pulling or pushing, and John looked up at him, along the length of his body, his own arousal tightening at the sight. Sherlock’s other hand was pressed to the headboard behind him, his back arched and his body trembling as he attempted to keep himself in check. His eyes were shut, long lashes fanning out over the sharp crest of his cheekbones, which were flushed scarlet, and his mouth was parted, those perfect lips shaped around indistinct moans.

John tightened his grip, stroking firmly, and concentrated his mouth on the head, his tongue swirling and pressing, licking into that tiny slit and tasting the bitter drop of precome that welled there. He groaned, his eyes closing, and sucked hard. Sherlock gasped, and his hips jerked up automatically, which John wasn’t quite ready for. He pulled off, his eyes stinging and his throat seizing up in a spasm of coughs.

Sherlock’s hands scrabbled for his shoulders, his fingers fluttering anxiously and his voice absolutely wrecked. “I’m sorry, oh god, I’m sorry, are you—?”

“Shh, it’s fine,” John gasped, grasping one of those hands and pulling it to his mouth to kiss the thin skin at the underside of his wrist. “It’s okay, shh.”

Sherlock’s pulse raced against his lips, and when John looked up he stared back with no shield up, every emotion written clearly across the canvas of his face. His eyes were bright and wild, and his teeth sank anxiously into his bottom lip. John pushed up to kiss him, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t mind after where his mouth had been, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He melted into it with a soft sound, his hands shaking as they smoothed down John’s chest.

“Do you want me to stop?” John asked as fine tremors worked through the body below him.

Sherlock shook his head, the motion slight, his lips brushing against John’s. “No, not unless—”

“I don’t want to stop,” John breathed, cutting the words off before Sherlock could give them voice. He sighed and nudged his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. “God, I never want to stop.”

Sherlock’s hands roamed across his back, soothing and gentle. “You’ve done that before.”

It wasn’t a question, and John licked his lips. “Not in a long time.”

Sherlock hesitated, but it seemed his curiosity got the better of him. “Sholto?”

The name brought back a wave of memories, wonderful ones that were nevertheless tinged with a longing sadness that had never quite disappeared, only lessened over time.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It was...complicated.”

Sherlock kissed his temple, the gesture so tender that it made John’s heart lurch painfully, and a lump formed in his throat. To distract himself he focused on Sherlock’s neck, soft and slick with sweat beneath his lips. He bit down gently, sucking at the delicate skin and soothing it with his tongue. Sherlock relaxed into it, his head tilting to allow for better access, and John increased the pressure of his teeth until Sherlock moaned and squirmed beneath him.

It was more about proof that this was really happening than possession; John wanted to be able to look at Sherlock in the morning, sleep-mussed and sated, and see the physical evidence that John had been with him, had touched him, had felt him beneath his hands, had made him come. He shivered at the thought and pulled back to examine the mark he’d made, red and dark against otherwise pale skin. He smoothed his thumb over it, and Sherlock turned into the sensation, his lips searching blindly for John’s hand.

“I want to touch you,” he said against John’s palm. His feather-light caress left a trail of goosebumps down John’s sides, his fingers toying with the waistband of John’s pajamas.

“God, yes,” John groaned, already lifting up so that Sherlock could push the material down his thighs, releasing his aching erection into the cool air of the room. He squirmed until the cloth was around his feet, kicking it off impatiently, and when he sank back down there was nothing separating him from Sherlock, nothing to lessen the impact of skin touching skin, and he shuddered as his cock brushed against Sherlock’s.

He’d thought Sherlock would want to look at him, to examine each new inch of John’s bared flesh, but instead Sherlock simply kissed him, his tongue slipping against John’s as his right hand trailed down John’s chest, fingernails dragging firmly enough that it didn’t tickle but lightly enough not to leave a mark. John opened his mouth wider, and the kiss turned wet and hot, all slick lips and panting breaths.

The first hesitant touch of Sherlock’s fingers to his cock made him whine, embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet room, and he buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and pushed shamelessly into that hand. Sherlock’s palm slicked along his length, curling around the base of him and then sliding up. It was a light touch, not quite enough, and the muscles in John’s belly tightened as heat coursed through his veins, lighting him up from the inside.

Sherlock’s name fell like a prayer on his lips as he rocked forward and back again. “Tighter,” he begged. “You won’t hurt me, _god,_ tighter, _please.”_

His request was obliged almost immediately, those long fingers tensing around him, and John’s strangled moan was muffled against Sherlock’s skin as he mouthed messily at that bony shoulder.

“Good?” Sherlock asked, his lips to John’s ear and his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

John laughed, a breathy, tight sound. “Yes, christ, it’s perfect,” he gasped. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect, don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s teeth closed around the lobe of his ear, and he passed his palm over the head of John’s cock, slicking it with precome before gripping him tightly and stroking, firm and slow. John jerked, his hips bucking into the sensation as Sherlock’s tongue licked obscenely into his ear.

“Kiss me.” Sherlock’s voice was deeper than John had ever heard it, dripping with want and dark with desire. John couldn’t deny him even if he wanted to. It was messy and uncoordinated, barely more than sharing harsh breaths, but it was the hottest thing John had ever felt, and his brain had reached the point where what he said next didn’t even remotely embarrass him.

“I bet you’re gorgeous when you come.”

Sherlock’s breath caught on a whine, his hand spasming around John’s cock. John reached between them, grasping those fingers and prying them loose.

“Just. Let me—”

He slotted his hips neatly against Sherlock’s, lining their erections up just right, and then repositioned Sherlock’s hand around the both of them. Sherlock squeezed lightly, and they both gasped.

“Yeah, like this,” John whispered. “God, I want you to come just like this.”

He went down onto his forearms, his hands tucked beneath Sherlock’s shoulders, and when he rolled his hips his cock slid perfectly alongside Sherlock’s where Sherlock held them tightly together.

“John,” Sherlock said brokenly. His feet dragged along the bedding as he pulled his legs up, his thighs bracketing John’s hips, and John set a slow, steady rhythm.

“That’s it,” he said, his teeth scraping Sherlock’s clavicle.

Sherlock’s free hand gripped his hair, and he tugged until John lifted his head to kiss him properly. There was a salty tang to the taste of Sherlock’s lips, and John felt it like a punch when he realized there were tears mingling with the sweat on Sherlock’s cheeks. He faltered, but Sherlock shook his head hard, and the hand that wasn’t diligently wrapped around them slipped down to John’s arse, squeezing and pulling him against Sherlock’s body in a manner that left no room for question.

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “I’m—I’ve _wanted this,_ don’t stop now.”

Something in John seemed to crack, spilling every emotion from the past few hours out into his body at once. The world contracted until all he knew was Sherlock and the sweat-slick press of his body, the tight grip of that talented hand around the most intimate part of him. The words that had been lodged in his throat for the past hour clawed their way out, and he said them into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, hoping that they would be enough, that Sherlock would understand that they meant so much more than what he could possibly convey.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s breath punched out of him with a sob, and his back arched as he pushed hard into his own hand, his cock hot and heavy alongside John’s. John kissed him, his lips, his cheek, his jaw, his ear, whispering the words again and again. Now that they were free of him he couldn’t seem to stop, the physical intimacy opening the gateway for the emotional intimacy to come crashing through.

“I love you, Sherlock, _christ,_ I love you so much,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted this, too, you know I have, I’m—you’re it for me, you’ve always been it.”

Sherlock said only his name in response, but the single word held more meaning than anything else he might’ve come up with, and, with one more fierce press of his hips he came, crying out with the force of his release as wet warmth seeped between their bodies. And John hadn’t been wrong; he was fucking gorgeous like this, that long neck arched, muscles tight and straining, his hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, that cupid’s bow mouth open and swollen from so many kisses. His whole body quaked beneath John’s, thighs shaking and stomach trembling, and he could hardly respond when John kissed him, licking into his slack mouth.

John didn’t stop moving, the ache of his cock almost unbearable, and Sherlock’s hand remained tight around him, even slicker than before. He pressed himself against the mess on Sherlock’s stomach, groaning and biting down into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled, the words practically slurred. “God, you’re so beautiful, Sherlock.”

Other than his hand, Sherlock was lethargic beneath him, his body slippery and pliant. His free hand wandered lazily up John’s side, and John caught it in one of his own, pressing it back against the bed, their fingers intertwined. Sherlock turned his head, his lips against John’s ear.

“Come for me, John,” he said, and John had never heard him sound that way, sated and content and somehow still so seductive it made John’s cock throb.

 _“Jesus,”_ he gasped. “Please say that again.”

Sherlock nudged his nose against John’s cheek, an obvious demand, and John lifted his head to look into his eyes, which were bright and brimming with so many emotions John couldn’t even begin to identify them.

He squeezed his hand tighter around John’s cock. “Come for me.”

Any control John might’ve had left vanished as Sherlock’s hand stroked him hard, once, twice, three more times before the heat in his belly expanded until it couldn’t be contained. He gasped, and his body pulled taut, every muscle tight and shaking. Sherlock’s mouth found his, his fingers gentle against John’s jaw, holding him in place as he came with a full body shudder, his release joining Sherlock’s across the smooth skin of his stomach.

Sherlock didn’t stop kissing him, and he pressed one foot flat to the bed and arched up, rolling them so that John ended up on his back, Sherlock’s weight settling over him, warm and perfect. When he’d regained his senses, his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and his mouth parted wide, his tongue slick against Sherlock’s. 

Even in all his trysts, in all his years building up the reputation of “Three Continents Watson”, John had never kissed anyone like this, with such absolute abandon as if it would never, ever be enough. Sherlock’s body pressed him down into the bed, his hands feverish on John’s skin. To an outsider it might look like they were only just starting, not finishing, even though neither of them was in any state to have another go just yet.

John cupped Sherlock’s face in his palms, gentling his kisses until finally Sherlock’s fervor seemed to dissipate, and he slumped forward, mouthing lazily at John’s shoulder instead. His skin was damp with sweat beneath John’s hands, and his curls stuck to John’s cheek when he turned his face to press a kiss against them.

The very first rays of morning light were beginning to seep in through the curtains, and John vaguely realized he was going to be absolutely exhausted when Rosie inevitably woke up at an ungodly hour. But as Sherlock shifted against him, his face mashed inelegantly into John’s neck, John really couldn’t give a damn. He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, reveling in the low sound of contentment that it produced, and knew with absolute certainty that, whatever the day ahead brought, he’d be happier than he’d ever been in his life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! This is it! The last chapter! Thank you so much for sticking with this story; all of the lovely comments and the wonderful support I have received is just overwhelming, and I'm so glad that I had all of you to help me finish telling this story. Enjoy! And as always, you can find me over on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com).

“What’s taking so long?”

Sherlock’s voice, petulant and lazy, drifted in through the open door of the loo, and John grinned around his toothbrush, absolutely bursting with affection. It had taken him roughly seven minutes to learn how to move again after Sherlock had collapsed on top of him. The sticky mess between them had made itself a bit of a hindrance, and John had pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head and reluctantly left him laying there to nip into the loo for a wet rag. He’d spotted his toothbrush out of the corner of his eye and thought it wouldn’t hurt considering where he’d had his mouth not too long ago.

He poked his head around the door. Sherlock was on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, still completely nude and absolutely shameless about it now. John’s heart lurched in his chest at the sight; he was still getting used to the idea that this was real.

“Here,” John said, the word garbled around the toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. Sherlock cracked one eye open to look at him, and John tossed the wet flannel, which landed with a _plop_ on Sherlock’s chest. “Clean off a bit with that. I’ll be out in a minute.”

He ducked back into the loo, unable to wipe the smile off of his face.

“If I don’t clean myself off would it convince you that I’m not posh?”

John laughed. “Nope. I’d still think you were posh and maybe just a bit kinky.”

Sherlock grumbled unintelligibly, and John could just picture him rolling his eyes, which only made his grin widen. He spit into the sink and rinsed his toothbrush. When he rounded the doorway into the bedroom the wet flannel hit him squarely in the stomach. He caught it before it could fall to the floor and gave Sherlock a look.

Sherlock shrugged. “That was for taking so long.”

“Impatient git,” John said, but he couldn’t keep the fondness out of the words. It was impossible to be annoyed when Sherlock was looking up at him from the bed, naked and relaxed and soft beneath the thin veneer of his irritation.

John threw the flannel into the hamper in the loo and then crawled back onto the bed. Muted light peeked through a gap in the curtains on the window, announcing the beginning of another cloudy day in London, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care about the time or his lack of sleep because Sherlock’s hands were warm on his arms as he leaned over him for a kiss. It was soft and unhurried, a slow press of lips and tongues that teetered precariously between chaste and the scintillating promise of _more._

“John?”

“Mmm?” John let his lips wander to Sherlock’s jaw, freeing his mouth up to speak.

“I was thinking.”

“You don’t say,” John said. Sherlock pinched him gently, and he smiled, nudging his nose just behind Sherlock’s ear.

“I was _thinking,”_ Sherlock said again, “we’ll be needing to come up with a different name for me.”

John frowned, pulling back to look at him properly. “What, for a case or something? Did Lestrade text you while I was in the loo?”

He was met with that certain expression that told him he was being extraordinarily daft. 

“I meant for Little Watson,” Sherlock said, over enunciating each word as if he thought it possible that John might have forgotten how the English language worked. John couldn’t muster the brain space to be offended by it because every thought in his head was pushed aside to make room for the words now streaming out of Sherlock’s mouth. “She already calls you ‘daddy.’ It will be far too confusing for her to associate that word with me as well. She’s quite intelligent, of course, so I don’t think it would matter in the long term, but it would probably be best for her language and cognitive development if she were to learn to associate us with two separate—”

“Sherlock, stop talking.”

Sherlock froze, and his mouth clamped shut with an audible _click_ of his teeth. He watched John with something like trepidation, but his eyes flicked around John’s face with nothing less than their keen intelligence, clearly attempting to deduce what had made John put a stop to his words. John let out his breath shakily and lowered his forehead to Sherlock’s sternum, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. 

“John?” Sherlock’s hand was hesitant on his back as if he wasn’t sure it was welcome, which only made John feel guilt on top of the other emotions that were overwhelming him. He’d thought he’d hit the peak of his emotional turmoil when Sherlock had pulled him so beautifully over the edge of pleasure before, but now...

Slowly, he raised his head. Sherlock’s face was blurry when John opened his eyes, but he could still see the softening of his expression, the small smile that transformed his worry into fondness. He leaned into the hand that Sherlock touched to his cheek.

“I’m fine,” he said, and he laughed wetly, wiping hurriedly at his eyes with one hand. “I’m fine, I just...you surprised me is all. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—” He pulled in a long, shaky breath and lowered himself until he was draped over Sherlock, his forehead cradled in the curve of that long neck. “Are you sure? When I asked before I wasn’t really thinking clearly, and it—it’s a big responsibility, being a father, and I don’t want you to think that just because we’ve—”

“John, stop talking.”

John couldn’t help smiling at the echo of his own words. One large hand cupped the back of his head, gentle fingers carding through his hair, and John closed his eyes, listening to the deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice below his ear.

“You said before that this is it for you. That _I_ was it for you.”

John’s cheeks warmed, and he turned his face a little further into Sherlock’s neck. He’d always been much more handy with words when he was in the midst of something heated and physical.

“I meant it,” he mumbled.

Sherlock’s lips brushed his hairline. “Then you should know that you’re it for me, too.”

John hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding in his body until it melted out of him with a relieved breath. Before he could think of anything to say in response, Sherlock went on. 

“I understand that, typically, new relationships are supposed to develop slowly, but...”

He trailed off, and John shifted, moving to press a kiss to his throat. “This isn’t exactly a new relationship,” he finished for him.

“Not exactly, no,” Sherlock agreed softly.

“Still,” John said. He looked up. “There’s a difference between deciding you want _this,_ and deciding you want...everything that comes with it.”

Sherlock cupped John’s face with both hands and pulled him in for a soft, brief kiss. “My hesitation before only arose from my belief that you would eventually leave.”

Something tightened painfully in John’s chest, and he shook his head hard. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. I can’t—I’m done trying to pretend that this isn’t the only life I’ve ever wanted.”

Sherlock’s throat worked around a hard swallow, and he smiled tremulously. “Then there’s nothing more to say. I want this. I want you, and I want Rosie, and I want everything that comes with it.”

John’s vision blurred again, and he kissed Sherlock, and it was too hard and too desperate, but he didn’t care because Sherlock was soft and warm beneath him, and nothing else mattered. There was the promise of more in every swipe of his tongue, in every stroke of his hand along Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock shuddered when John’s fingers passed teasingly over a nipple. He felt sure they would’ve tumbled gladly and ardently into round two had it not been for the sudden, wailing cry that came from the baby monitor.

John couldn’t help groaning as he dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, his building arousal immediately replaced by the heavy, bone-deep weariness that had been lingering in the background throughout most of the night.

“Are you sure you don’t want to rethink this decision?” he grumbled. He reached over to twist the volume knob on the monitor so that it wasn’t quite as piercing.

Sherlock laughed, the sound so at odds with the muted wailing that was coming out of the small speaker on the nightstand. His hands smoothed over John’s shoulders, and he spoke with his lips against his hair. “Let me get her. You rest a while.”

John lifted his head. “You must be just as tired as I am.”

One half of Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I’m used to functioning on far less sleep than this. Although, I admit the extracurricular activities haven’t come into play in the past...”

John grinned and pressed close for one last, lingering kiss. “Get used to it,” he murmured against the shell of his ear. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and John sighed, regretful that he wouldn’t get to make that flush expand again quite yet. He rolled over to let Sherlock up, watching appreciatively as he crawled out of bed and slipped into a fresh pair of pajama pants and his robe.

“If Mrs. Hudson’s awake, she might not mind watching her for a bit,” John said as Sherlock opened the door, and Sherlock quirked a brow. “If you get tired, I mean,” John clarified, rolling his eyes.

“Mm,” Sherlock said, and his grin was sly. “We’ll see.”

He had stepped into the hall and almost had the door closed when suddenly he was back, hand still wrapped around the doorknob.

“Perhaps...if you like, we could...” He cleared his throat. John had never heard him sound quite so hesitant before. “We could take a weekend soon. My family has a cottage in Sussex. Molly could watch Rosie, and we could...”

A slow smile spread across John’s face. “I’d like that, yeah.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed, and his returned smile was small but sincere. He turned away again, and John heard a murmured, “Get some rest, John,” before the door closed softly behind him.

John let out a long, slow breath and then climbed underneath the luxurious sheets in Sherlock’s bed. _Our bed,_ he corrected himself, his heart leaping at the thought. They hadn’t discussed it yet, of course, but John figured that if Sherlock was willing to raise his daughter then he was willing to share his bed on a nightly basis.

He had just gotten himself comfortable when the sound of Sherlock’s voice drifted over the baby monitor, and Rosie’s cries stuttered to a halt. John reached over to turn up the volume again, his throat tight.

“Yes, little bee, I’m here,” Sherlock was saying. The muffled sounds of cloth rubbing cloth and the creaking of the crib punctuated his words. “Papa’s here, you don’t have to worry.”

John closed his eyes, his heart so full he thought it might actually choke him. He turned over onto his stomach, breathing in the scent of Sherlock that still clung to the pillows, and let the sounds of utter domesticity wash over him as he drifted off to sleep, Sherlock’s voice the last thing he heard.

“We must be very quiet now, Watson. Your daddy is sleeping, and we mustn’t wake him. But don’t worry, Papa will take very good care of you. Papa will always take care of you and Daddy.”

**Author's Note:**

> A special shoutout to the wonderful [sherlockhxlmes](http://sherlockhxlmes.tumblr.com) for listening to me scream and whine while I write this. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are loved and appreciated!


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